Teething Trouble
by Lampito
Summary: Dean and Sam are worried about Jimi, their canine companion. Two years old, 150 pounds, he's finally an adult dog, taking his Place in his Pack for the Hunt, because he's all grown up now... or is he?  Not your average hurt/comfort... COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

A cetain amount of interwebs subterfuge, address manipulation and fannying about is required to get something posted in this category, and when it's finished, I won't be able to mark it as 'Complete' until The Ongoing Site Gremlins are exterminated. Nor is it possible to add characters, or change any of the properties. But, just like Celine Dion, we will not be stopped by the electronic iceberg that has crashed into our fanfiction site, tearing open bulkheads and letting in the seawater to sink various sites without trace, because we will find a way to hold on, Jack, hold on... Yooooooooooooou're heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere, there's noooooothiiiiiiiiing I feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeear and I knoooooooooooooooow that fanfiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiics will go oooooooooooooooooooooooon...

Okay, so we're all getting a little techy with the the FFN gremlins. Me, I need to clear some of these frigging plot bunnies that are hopping around under my desk, crapping on the carpet, chewing on the wiring... anyway, this one can be squarely blamed on whoever it was who wanted to see some more of Dean parenting at Jimi. I think this is as close as we can get without another werewolf bite.

**DISCLAIMER**: None of it is mine, that includes the Southpark quotes, except Jimi, and even then my plans to kidnap the adorable little munchkin he's modelled on have been thwarted since said adorable little munchkin has now grown to 120+ lbs...

**TITLE**: Teething Troubles

**SUMMARY: **Jimi the half-Hellhound is the Winchesters' faithful canine companion. Two years old, 150 pounds, he's finally an adult dog, and taking his Place in his Pack for the Hunt, because now he's all grown up... or is he? This is not going to be your average hurt/comfort. (Should be quite a bit shorter than my others, too.)

**SETTING:** A Jimi the Half-Hellhound story. Set after 'Just Like You', when Jimi is two years old.

**RATING:** T. Let's face it, neither of them is ever going to be invited onto Martha Stewart's show.

**BLAME:** Those frigging plot bunnies, and the merciless individuals (aka the slightly demented persons) who insist on encouraging me by reading and then reviewing. I hold you all personally responsible. You know who you are. Reprobates.

* * *

**TEETHING TROUBLE - a Supernatural fanfic**

**Chapter 1**

It started in the middle of an otherwise routine job. Well as 'routine' as one of the Winchesters' jobs could ever be. Dealing with an Okami that had been preying on visitors to a national park. Straighforward, right? Step one, grab fugly, step two, stab fugly with bamboo knife, step three,

"Profit!" grinned Dean. Sam rolled his eyes as his big brother insisted on singing his own take on The Underpants Gnomes song:

"Time to go to work, work all night,  
Search for Okami, hey,  
We won't stop til we gank Okami,  
Yum tum yummy tum tay."

"If you insist on singing, it'll hear us coming, and run away," Sam told him, giving his older brother a shot of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean).

"Time to go to work, work all night,  
Search for Okami, hey..." continued Dean cheerfully.

In the back seat, Jimi made a whining noise that Sam had come to think of as his 'WTF?' noise. As Dean sang, Sam turned around, and shared a pained expression with the dog. "Dean, you're disturbing the dog – he has more sensitive ears than me, and he's too polite to tell you to shut the fuck up."

"...We won't stop til we find Okami..." Jimi made a face that no Rottweiler should be able to make. It conveyed so much with so little_. You are my Alpha. I love you unconditionally. I would follow you into Hell. One day, I will die defending you. Also, please remember my ears are more sensitive than yours, and I am capable of tearing your throat out. Not that I would. Unless you keep making that awful noise._

"Of course, we could just get you to sing at it until it decides to gnaw through its own femoral artery to get away from the noise."

"You seem a little irritable, Sam," observed Dean in a solicitous-yet-suspiciously-Cartmanesque voice, "You got some sand in your vagina?"

"Right, that's it," announced Sam, "No more Southpark marathons for you. Ever. You're less obnoxious after watching porn. Try some nice European films next time."

"It's all a bunch of tree-hugging hippie crap!" declared Dean Cartman.

"No, really, you'll enjoy it – try something French, lots of tits and ass and casual sex, and you don't speak the language, so there won't be any irritating quotes."

"Nah, dude," replied Eric-Dean, smirking, "Independent films are those black and white hippy movies. They're always about gay cowboys eating pudding."

"I could almost wish to remember Hell," muttered Sam, as the car came to a stop. "It might give me a little bright spark of hope to cling to when you get to be too much to bear..."

They approached the trail where walkers had been attacked. "Okay," said Dean, hefting his bamboo knife, "When it comes after me, you, Jimi, grab it, and you, Sam, help me stab it." The dog wagged his tail, and looked attentive. He was two years old now, finally grown into his full size. Allowed to take his Place with his Pack, he took it very seriously.

"Are we really going to have this argument again?" asked Sam incredulously, shifting his grip on his own Okami knife.

"Nope," answered Dean, "Because I am Alpha of this pack, so you will do what I say, because that is the way of things. Right, Jimi?" Jimi gave Dean an affectionate rumble, and nudged his head under Dean's hand for a pat.

"What is this death wish you have, O Great And Wise Yet Apparently Suicidal Alpha, that you have to be the one to trawl himself as bait?"

"Because I'm the type it likes," smirked Dean, "The walkers who've been attacked have been the handsome, manly types. It won't want a girly emo like you, Miss Polly Prissy-Pants."

"Unbelievable," sighed Sam, "You were born to be bait, weren't you? You must've been a rent boy in a previous life."

"I can't help it if I'm so hot that neither women nor fuglies can resist me," replied Dean in a plaintive tone. "The life of a Living Sex God is not an easy one. Keep an eye on Sammy until this thing shows, J-Man." Jimi exchanged A Look with Sam. _I really hate it when he does this._

Dean strolled ahead along the trail, two pairs of eyes watching him anxiously.

Ten minutes later, Jimi let out his warning growl, the one that travelled through the ground rather than the air and was pitched specifically for his Hunters to hear. Thirty seconds later, he was moving before Sam even saw the thing, his eyes glowing the red of angry embers, slamming his full weight and his Hellhound heritage into the Okami as it leaped towards Dean.

Grab, stab, profit. Straightforward, right? Unfortunately, this Okami hadn't been reviewing the company mission statement.

However, it had been taking its vitamins, and eating the foods it hated but that its mother told it would make it grow up big and strong. It was _big_, like, 'Dude, WTF?' big. It made the Sasquatch look like a 99-pound weakling, thought a detached piece of Dean's brain as he barely dodged the Okami's attack.

Jimi sank his teeth into the thing, but it screeched and tore itself away, coming after Dean once more. The look of surprise on the dog's face was almost comical, but he was after the monster again immediately. In that sliver of time, Sam recognised the look of utter determination on Jimi's face: it was the one he'd worn as a small pup, utterly committed to launching himself high enough to crawl onto a bed or into a lap…

Jimi's jaws clamped onto the Okami again, and this time the thing howled in anger and pain, unable to dislodge the dog. Gouts of blood flew, it struggled and wrenched, but Jimi hung on, eyes crackling red, until Dean and Sam moved in to finish it.

"… Five, six, seven," counted Sam, as the Okami gave a final angry growl, and collapsed. Jimi didn't release his hold until it was on the ground and clearly dead.

"Shit," commented Dean, dusting himself off, "That thing was on steroids. Where would an Okami get steroids? I mean, look at it! It's Arnold Shwartzenokami. It's Hulk Okami. Hulk Hogan Okami. Titanic Okami – somewhere around here, Leonardo DiCaprio is turning amusingly blue as we speak…"

"Must be all the rugged, manly men it had been eating," suggested Sam. "All that lean meat, and testosterone."

"The worst part is the size of the hole we're going to have to dig," decided Dean glumly, his gaze shifting to Jimi. "That was a good save, Jimi, I thought you'd lost him there for a minute… Jimi…?"

Jimi sat, his muzzle and front legs covered in blood, pawing at his face. He turned a pair of mournful eyes on them.

"Awwww, Jimi, don't tell me you're freaking out because you got a bit of blood and guts on you?" grinned Dean, "In this pack, Francis here is the one who squeals like a little bitch if he gets so much as a speck of goo in his hair." His grin faded, as the dog made a distressed whimpering noise. "Hey, hey, show me," he said, kneeling down next to Jimi, "Have you hurt yourself? Show me, fella…"

"Dean," started Sam in a thoughtful tone, "He's left interesting bite wounds on this thing."

"How 'interesting'?" asked Dean, examining the dog's face. "Interesting as in 'Wow, I never knew that was anatomically possible or even legal, and I'm dying to try it out next time I meet up with an equally broad-minded lady with the required flexibility' or interesting as in 'Wow, I've never seen that before'?"

"Neither, exactly," clarified Sam, glaring at Dean with Bitchface #6™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). He bent down to examine the wounds Jimi had left on the Okami's remains. "I have seen bites like this before."

The tone of Sam's voice prompted Dean to look more carefully at the Okami. "Er, okay," he agreed, "That's… unexpected. Messier than your average dog bite. A lot messier. Even for a dog bite with Jimi's jaw strength behind it." He glanced up at his brother's thoughtful face. "Where have you seen this?"

"On you," answered Sam bluntly. "When your deal came due. Hellhounds leave this sort of a mess."

"What?" Dean stared in confusion at the Okami, then at Jimi. "That's not possible. He's half-Hellhound, sure, but he got his teeth from his Mommy."

"I'm not so sure about that anymore," replied Sam, nodding at Jimi as the dog let out another yelp. Dean knelt beside him again – the blood on his muzzle was fresh, Jimi's own blood. He caressed the big square head.

"Hey, fella, what's happening?" he said quietly, as Jimi pawed at his mouth again. "Have you hurt yourself? Show me, big guy, come on, open up," he coaxed, as Jimi pulled away, "We have to see what's wrong before we can fix it… FUCK!" He let out his own yelp of pain, jerking his hand away. The sharp-edged cut at the base of his thumb looked pale, as if it had been made too sharply to damage the tissue, but then it turned red, and began to bleed copiously.

Sam was in action immediately, grabbing Dean's hand to inspect the damage. "What the hell?" he mused, pulling a gauze dressing from a pocket and wrapping it hurriedly around the wound, "Jesus, that looks like it was done with a scalpel blade!"

"His mouth, Sam, check his mouth, right now," ordered Dean, grabbing hold of the bandage, trying to stop the bleeding.

Sam knelt by Jimi, a suspicion growing in his mind. The dog's eyes went all the way past 'intense pathos' and through to 'abject misery' as they turned to him in a silent appeal.

"I know, Jimi, it hurts, doesn't it?" he said gently, "Now, just show me where it's sore."

Jimi was reluctant to open his mouth, but at Sam's careful insistence he did so. Sam peered at the dog's canine dentition. "It looks like there's a wound on his lower jaw," he relayed to Dean, "But there's a lot of blood in here, it's hard to see exactly... yikes!"

Without warning, the cause of Jimi's pain and Dean's thumb wound popped suddenly into view.

A long, curved Hellhound tooth, the size and sharpness of a butcher's boning knife, slid smoothly out of Jimi's gum. The dog yelped again, and the tooth retracted.

"What is it, Sam?" asked Dean worriedly, "What's wrong with him?"

Sam sighed. "I don't think anything's actually 'wrong' with him, Dean," he said resignedly, patting the dog's head. "I think he might be teething."

* * *

Every time you leave a review, an iceberg crashes into Celine Dion in an alternative universe...


	2. Chapter 2

Yes, poesie, you heard me, reprobate! Reprobate! *points at poestheblackcat* Reprobate! Don't edge behind the screen, there, Elf and Bartlebead, you're equally bad! I know what you people are up to! You lot and your damned plot bunnies... You're all in this together! You're all a bunch of ringleaders!

Ahem. FFN gremlins. They're getting to everybody. (Poesie, go and have a look at the General Forums, sort by Topic Count, and the Fanfic Help Desk forum comes up at #5. There are some threads stickied to the top, describing the less-than-satisfactory-but-better-than-nothing work-around for publishing a new story - be aware that you cannot edit its properties once it exists, only update chapter content - and the fix for updating chapters in an existing one.) So, from FFN's teething troubles to Jimi's...

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"You cannot seriously be suggesting that this is normal!" exclaimed Dean anxiously. He sat on the floor next to Jimi, not caring about the questionable provenance of what passed for 'carpet' in the motel room of their usual crappy standard. Jimi lay on his blanket, his head on a towel in Dean's lap, with an expression indicating that the wearer was The Saddest Dog In The World.

"Might I remind you that we're dealing with a half-Hellhound here, Dean," Sam said calmly, determined to be the voice of reason, as he tapped at the laptop. "Who's to say what 'normal' is for a half-Hellhound?"

"Stop clacking away at that thing and go get more ice," ordered Dean grumpily. Sam clenched his teeth – Dean had refused to leave the dog's side, meaning that Sam had been forced to grovel around on the floor of questionable cleanliness in order to tend to the wound on his brother's hand. "And more towels."

"Okay, okay, I'm doin' it," he said placatingly, "Can you just try to calm down a little…"

"How the hell am I supposed to calm down?" growled Dean angrily, "He's in pain, Sam, he's scared, he has no idea what's going on, and neither do we!"

"That's not strictly true," Sam corrected him, "I have a working theory on this…"

"You can shove your working theory sideways up your proposition until it comes out your conclusion," continued Dean. "Ice. Towels. Now."

"I scuttle willingly to obey your commands, O Great And Terrible Alpha," grumped Sam, heading out for another run to the ice machine and a break-and-enter on housekeeping's cupboard.

Dean fashioned another ice-pack chew toy, and gave it to Jimi. Like the others, it rapidly disintegrated, slashed to pieces by the emerging demonic dentition.

"This is not normal, Sam!" repeated Dean, "Look, there's blood everywhere!"

"I can't help wondering if this is just another, you know, maturation thing for Jimi," Sam told him, consulting his laptop. "The teeth that are emerging, they're incisors, the teeth right at the front of the jaws. They erupt first when both the milk teeth and the permanent teeth come through. My theory is, it looks like Jimi might be getting his final set of teeth. His Hunting teeth. His Hellhound teeth."

"That's so fucked up," muttered Dean, stroking the mournful face in his lap, "Why do they keep going in and out, then?"

"Do you remember Jimi Senior's Hellhound teeth?" asked Sam. "He only, um, deployed them when he needed to use them, and his mouth didn't bleed. The rest of the time, they were, I don't know, retracted. But they were clearly under his control." He hunkered down to pat Jimi reassuringly. "Maybe it's like his alien-blood incendiary pee, and the running-through-solid-walls thing – it took a while for him to get those under control. Maybe these teeth are like that, he'll have to get the hang of them, learn to control them." He looked down at the dog, taking in the Big Brown Eyes. "Maybe he's just hit the right age for them to start breaking through, then maybe they popped out because he needed them, couldn't hold onto the Okami with his ordinary dog teeth. His firestarting pee and walk-through-walls was like that, they manifested for the first time when he got really worked up about something, and he learned the control after that."

"Jesus, Sam, how long is it going to take?" wondered Dean in a worried voice. "He's going to bleed to death in a couple of days at this rate."

"Dean, you're exaggerating," replied Sam, "Really, bro, I don't think this is cause for concern."

"Right, no cause for concern," nodded Dean, scowling at Sam, "Our dog is lying here with fucking knives popping in and out of his jaws, he's bleeding and yelping and clearly in distress, but it's no cause for concern. Thank you for that assessment, Dr Mengele." He returned his attention to Jimi. "First thing tomorrow, we're heading back to Bobby's," he announced, "Where we will find a way to help him with this."

"I'll give Bobby a call before we leave, see if Janis has had anything like this happen recently," Sam said, yawning, "Right now, I'm turning in."

Dean stared at him. "How the hell can you think about sleeping when our boy is in pain?" he demanded.

"He's going to be teething whether we're asleep or not, bro," Sam pointed out reasonably.

The look Dean gave him implied that Sam had just suggested drowning some cute little kittens in battery acid, followed by some gratuitous pulling the wings off butterflies, breaking the necks of fluffy, not-yet-fledged baby ducklings, then stealing the beanie hats from children with cancer, after running through the ward and bursting every balloon in sight.

"You selfish, callous asshole," hissed Dean, wrapping an arm protectively over Jimi's shoulders. Jimi let out a small whine, then a whumph of resignation, dialling the Big Brown Eyes all the way up to Impossibly Appealing, and Dean crooned reassuringly to him, ruffling the dog's ears. Jimi settled more comfortably against his Alpha.

Sam couldn't help but let out a small amused snort. As a puppy, Jimi had learned the power of the Puppy Dog Eyes, and he made Sam look like a rank amateur. Dean was particularly susceptible to that form of manipulation, and Sam had a guilty suspicion he might be in part responsible for that.

"If you're going to sit up fussing at him all night, at least one of us will have to be awake enough to drive back to the yard without wrapping us around a pylon," Sam told him.

"Fine, Sam," agreed Dean, "Fine, you do that, you go to bed, lay your weary little head down and get comfy and have nice sleepy-bobos, don't let yourself be at all disturbed by the fact that Jimi is having his GUMS cut up by TEETH LIKE KNIVES every FIVE MINUTES..."

"YAIPE!" interrupted Jimi, as another tooth-blade made itself felt.

"... Every THREE MINUTES, you UNFEELING BASTARD!"

"Dean, can we try not to be completely hysterical about this?" sighed Sam, "At least try to moderate your hysteria, try to calm it down to neurotic catastrophisation..." Dean shot him a murderous look, then turned his attention fully back to Jimi.

All Sam could do was return fire with Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), then get ready for bed, and hope that Dean would be more sensible in the morning. _While you're at it_, he told himself, _Why don't you hope that the conflict in the Gaza Strip will be resolved, a non-polluting solution to the world's energy needs will be discovered, Third World poverty will be overcome, and ads for experienced Hunters will start turning up in newspaper employment sections offering six-figure salaries, full medical benefits and fresh fruit in the office on Tuesdays and Thursdays?_

"G'night, bro, Jimi," he said, bending down to pat Jimi. The dog offered him a brave doggy grin – he'd also learned as a puppy that Sam had been doing Puppy Dog Eyes for long enough to recognise them a mile away – while Dean ignored him. Sam groaned inwardly - Dean would no doubt sit with Jimi until the dog went to sleep, if he went to sleep, and would work himself into a state of raving mother hendom by the morning. He'd been overly concerned when Jimi's permanent teeth had started coming through, keeping him supplied with frozen washcloths and cobs of corn and hanks of rope to chew on, and ever since Jimi had spent three days as a human Dean had become even more solicitous of the dog's well-being.

Sam crawled into his bed. He really was tired, the last few days had been hectic, interviewing witnesses, sneaking into the morgue, talking to a couple of surviviors, narrowing down the Okami's probable hunting range. Sleep sounded good just about now…

Pity he wasn't going to be allowed to get any.

He couldn't have been in bed for more than an hour when he was startled rudely awake by a piece of wet, cold towel landing on his face.

"Gaaaah!" he sat up with a start, scrabbling the fabric off his face, "Gah! What the… Dean? Dean! Did you throw this at me?"

"More towels," demanded Dean without preamble.

"You woke me up to get you more towels?" yawned Sam, glaring at his brother with Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!). "You woke me up, with a wet and cold and, and, and _slobbery_ chew toy remnant, to get you more towels? When exactly did you lose the use of your legs?"

"I can't leave Jimi," growled Dean, glaring right back. "More towels, NOW, Samantha!"

Sam slid out of bed, grumbling something uncharitable about neurotic big brothers, and set off for another raid on housekeeping.

"Your towels, O Insistent One," he sighed on return, "May I be excused?"

"For now, you insensitive bitch," allowed Dean, fashioning yet another ice pack for Jimi as Sam crawled back into bed…

Only to be woken less than an hour later by something hard, wet and extremely cold landing on the back of his neck.

"Yaaaaaaargh!" he shrieked, jumping awake, his head spinning. "Dean? Dean! What?" he scrabbled for a weapon, then turned to see Dean glaring at him from the floor.

"About time, Rip Van Winkle," chided his brother, nodding at the ice bucket. "More ice."

Sam stared blearily at his brother as his hand went to his neck. Something hard had definitely connected – he looked down to see several chunks of ice on the sheet beside him.

"You threw ice at me? Jerk!" he responded, picking the ice out of his bed before it could melt any further.

"You wouldn't wake up. More ice. Now," repeated Dean imperiously.

"You would still have ice to use," hissed Sam, "If you hadn't used so much of it to throw at me!"

Dean just glared at him, perilously close to pulling a very Samesque bitchface, as Sam humphed in surrender, and picked up the ice bucket.

"Your ice," he announced upon return, avoiding the temptation to dump the contents over Dean, before returning to his bed. "Great, the sheets are damp, thanks Dean," he griped.

"It's the only time you're ever going to have a wet spot to sleep on," Dean told him without humour, throwing a towel at him. "Use this, bitch."

Sam glared at his brother, laid the towel over the melted ice dampness, and went back to bed.

Until he was yanked from sleep by the dulcet tones of 'Highway to Hell'.

He groaned, turned over, and opened one eye to see Dean holding his phone in Sam's direction at arm's length.

Dean indicated brusquely that he wanted the towel in Sam's bed, and further, he required more towels, and expected Sam to make yet another raid to furnish them.

Sam suggested that Dean should make do with what he had, and flung the towel at his brother's head.

Dean made a counter suggestion that Sam haul his lazy, uncaring ass out of bed and fetch the required linens.

Sam opined that the world would be a better place if Dean would stop behaving like a neurotic first-time mother.

Dean thanked Sam for his considered opinion, and wondered out loud whether Sasquatch hair might be fashioned into a chew toy for a teething Hellhound.

Sam complimented Dean on his lateral thinking, observing that it was typical of the sort of fucking ludicrous ideas that Dean sometimes came up with when he was wound up and overtired and over-reacting.

Dean ventured that Sam had best fetch towels before something terribly unfortunate happened to his person.

Sam expressed sincere regret that Dean was behaving like a total asshole.

Deam expressed no regret whatsoever about throwing the remains of Jimi's most recent ice-pack chew toy at Sam; indeed, he emanated a certain amount of satisfaction when said missile made contact with his younger brother's head. He then implied that Sam was a female canine.

Sam referred to Dean as a spasmodic muscular movement. or possibly a weightlifting move involving raising the barbell from shoulder height to above the head by straightening the arms. He did, however, concede to his brother's wishes, and fetch another armful of towels, which he proceeded to drop on Dean's head. After that he retreated to his bed, with an impolite comment about Dean's after-dark proclivities and a recommendation that Dean shove his head up his own ass and whistle Dixie.

Dean made a rather hurtful remark about Sam's probable sexual preferences, implying that they lay towards the fetishistic, nay, the perverse, the pathological, and the downright weird. He made some helpfully demonstrative hand gestures to explain his meaning more clearly.

Enough is enough, thought Sam, deciding to get mediaeval on Dean's ass, figuratively speaking. He closed his eyes, and put his hands together, whispering into his pillow:

"Now I lay me down to sleep,  
My brother's being a total creep,  
I really hate to ask this, Cas, but  
Dean is being an utter assbutt.

I think Jimi might be teething:  
Hellhound knife teeth keep unsheathing  
In his mouth, and he's in pain,  
And Dean is driving me insane…"

He paused for a moment, then sighed. Maybe he was being as bad as his brother, and over-reacting. If Jimi was teething, it was a perfectly normal physiological process, and it would resolve itself. Bobby had kept dogs for most of his life, would be level-headed about this, and might be able to help. There were a lot of websites dealing with all sorts of puppy troubles. Castiel was a busy Senior Exec angel, he thought – he might not appreciate being interrupted because a dog had a bit of teething trouble… they should deal with this themselves, he decided. They were, after all, adults, and he liked to think that he himself was capable of rational thought, even if his brother was determined to behave like a complete and total weightlifting move…

"…Cas, please disregard this prayer,  
We'll go to Bobby's, fix it there…

...And if before I wake, I'm dead,  
I hope my Heaven has a bed.

Amen."

* * *

Every time you leave a review, somebody dumps a bucket of ice on Celine Dion in an alternative universe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sam desperately wanted it to be a bad dream.

Between being woken by wet towel pieces, ring tones, something that felt suspiciously like socks full of ice and a lampshade ("Hnh? What? Jesus, Dean, did you just throw a _lampshade_ at me?" "I only had two socks on and it was all I could reach. Go get ice, bitch."), and Dean's repeated demands for ice, towels, water bottles and at 2 a.m. chicken soup and coffee, he felt worse than if he hadn't slept at all.

"_Hey Jude, don't make it bad,  
__Take a sad song, and make it better..."_

And now, lack of sleep was causing him to have auditory hallucinations. Fuck my life...

"_Remember to let her into your heart,  
__Then you can start to make it better..."_

Maybe not an hallucination, he decided, rolling over – he was still tired, so maybe he really was dreaming. Yeah, that was it, he was dreaming about being a kid again, when Dean would sing to him to help him get to sleep... with a small sigh of relief, he rolled over, snuggled into his pillow...

Then sat up with a small shriek as a boot landed on his pillow beside his head.

"About time, Francis," grumbled Dean, "We have to hit the road. Right after you stock us up on ice." He glared pointedly at the empty bucket.

Sam peered blearily at his brother. Dean looked worse than he felt. He still sat, looking paler and more anxious, with Jimi's head in his lap.

"_Hey Jude, don't be afraid,  
__You were made to go out and get her..."_

"Are you_ singing_ to Jimi?" asked Sam in disbelief, dragging himself out of bed. Jimi rolled mournful eyes at him, and managed to wag the last three inches of his tail.

"He had a rough night, as you'd know if you hadn't been blissfully and callously asleep through the whole thing," snarled Dean, "He barely dozed at all."

"Strangely enough, neither did I," answered Sam, "I can't think why…"

After packing their gear and making two surreptitious trips to the dumpster to consign the bodies of the towels that had died to soothe Jimi's gums to The Great Linen Cupboard In The Sky ("Leave it, Sam, that's what housekeeping does." "Dean, if we don't get rid of this mess they'll think we murdered someone in here! Your singing will just convince management that we tortured them first…"), they set off for Bobby's. Dean sat in the back seat with Jimi, one last unlucky towel under the large mournful head in his lap, issuing music requirements.

"Hey," protested Sam, "What happened to driver picks the music?"

"I am the driver, I'm just occupied with something important at the moment," Dean improvised shamelessly, "And we need something calming and soothing to help Jimi relax."

"This_ is_ calming and soothing," argued Sam, gesturing at the radio, "It's highlights from the works of Mascagni…"

"It's an overwrought hysterical racket!" asserted Dean, "How could anybody relax with that, that, that _noise_ in the background?"

"Dean, this is the Intermezzo from 'Cavaleria Rusticana', it's very soothing and relaxing."

"No it's not."

"It is!"

"It's totally not! It sounds like cats having their tails pulled! Nobody can relax to cats having their tails pulled!"

"DEAN THIS MUSIC IS EXTREMELY FUCKING RELAXING!" shouted Sam.

"It's not in the least bit relaxing. End of argument." Dean gestured imperiously at the stereo. "We'll start with 'Ace of Spades'."

"Yeah, okay," grumbled Sam, fishing through the tapes box for the required item, "Because all the great tenors sound like they have gravel and Jack Daniels for breakfast every morning."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

A few hours later, Sam was starting to think that running the car into a pylon would be the most merciful course of action for all three of them. Jimi periodically yelped and whined as another tooth made itself felt, while Dean issued orders from the back seat with regard to music, pit-stops, catering requirements, adjustments to the heating, travel speed and road surface quality.

"What do you mean, I'm driving 'lumpy'?" asked Sam incredulously, giving Dean a shot of Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk) in the mirror.

"You're hitting every bump in the road," Dean told him grumpily, "And the jostling is upsetting Jimi."

"What the hell am I supposed to do about the state of the tar on the frigging road?" spluttered Sam.

"Aim for the least bumpy bits," instructed Dean a bit snippily.

"Right, dodge in and out of the lumps, bumps and dips that are going by so fast I can't even see them and probably don't even exist," Sam nodded, "Will do, big bro, leave it with me." Dean was turning into a, a, a… Sam found himself lost for an appropriate word. He was concerned for Jimi too, of course, but Dean was being utterly and obsessively neurotic about it. If Dean was a bride-to-be, he'd now officially be a Bridezilla. What was the word for someone behaving in a bridezilla-ish fashion over a dog this way? Vetzilla? Dogzilla? Divazilla? Deanzilla. Yeah, Deanzilla. Dean was being a total Deanzilla. He liked the sound of that one.

Dean was now officially a total Deanzilla.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Bobby was waiting for them when they finally pulled into the yard. "Hey there, little guy," he smiled at Jimi, who wagged his tail a little and leaned affectionately into Bobby's chin scratching, "What's going on with you, hey? Tweedledum and Tweedledumber tell me you got some grief with your tee- GOD'S TITS!" Jimi yelped, and Bobby stared in amazement as a tooth made an appearance, leaving a cut on his hand before retracting. "Balls," he humphed, inspecting his hand, "That's a hell of a trick you're developing there, youngster." He grinned ruefully at the dog, who pawed unhappily at his face and whined, butting against Bobby for more patting and reassurance.

"You okay, Bobby?" asked Sam, hefting his bag.

"Just nicked me, is all," Bobby reassured him. Rumsfeld and Janis had come to greet them, and sat close to Jimi, licking his ears and sniffing at his muzzle. Bobby grinned. "Maybe he'll feel a bit better for having his Mommy here to kiss his boo-boos better," he speculated. "Bring him in, boys, I've got a few things for him to try."

Dean and Jimi settled on the sofa and Sam followed Bobby to the back porch. "Lots of dogs have pain when they're teething," Bobby said, "Something cold to chomp on, have against their gums, can often give 'em relief, or just having something to chew seems to help with the pain and take their minds off it." He hefted some hanks of frozen hemp rope out of his porch freezer. "We'll try him with these."

Jimi inspected the ropesicles, and chewed on one contentedly. It seemed to soothe his gums, for all of the thirty seconds it took his hell-teeth to shred it. He looked at the shredded fibre with the same mildly surprised expression he developed every time one of his toys disintegrated, ruptured, bisected traumatically or suffered an acute and fatal prolapse of the squeaker.

"Okaaaaay, something a bit more robust, then," mused Bobby, returning to the freezer for a piece of larger diameter rope.

That lasted longer. Sixty seconds longer.

"Well, we seem to be on the right track," he decided, as Jimi looked up hopefully from the mess of hemp fibre in Dean's lap, "We just gotta find something that Hellhound teeth can chew on, and not destroy in sixty seconds flat."

They tried a large chunk of hardwood. Jimi had it whittled to sawdust within minutes. "We could hire him out as a wood-chipper," observed Dean.

Next, Bobby fetched a truly enormous beef bone from the freezer. "I didn't know you shot elephants in these parts," marvelled Sam. It was a testament to how tired and anxious Dean was that he didn't make any crack about 'the size of the bone', or ask which bit of the elephant it was from. He encouraged Jimi to try it, without so much as a lewd waggle of his eyebrows.

It was like watching an industrial meat-grinder: frozen giant bone went in one side of Jimi's mouth, pulverised squishy red goo came out the other.

"Oh, well," mused Sam philosophically, "At least the sawdust is soaking up some of it…"

Bobby thought he was onto a winner when he brought in a spare wheel, plonking it down triumphantly in from of Jimi. "An old rubber boot did the trick for Rumsfeld," he told them, "A whole tyre should keep him busy."

It did. It lasted nearly three minutes.

"Um, maybe we could try a steel-belted radial?" suggested Dean.

"That was a steel-belted radial," Bobby informed him glumly.

Sam sighed. "I'll go get a shovel," he offered, as Jimi made a start on the wheel rim. Tiny shards of aluminium alloy confetti fell to the carpet and made pretty patterns around Dean's feet. "I don't think the vacuum cleaner will cope very well."

"I guess we could try a steel rim," pondered Bobby.

Admittedly, the pressed steel wheel took longer for Jimi to gnaw into submission, but the noises he made whilst doing it set all the nearby human ears – and the dog ears, too, if the howling that Rumsfeld and Janis set up outside was anything to go by – on edge.

"Gah! That's worse than someone with amalgam fillings chewing on foil!" shuddered Sam, his eyes crossing slightly. "Nails down a blackboard have nothing on that sound!"

Bobby frowned. "Sam," he said, "Come with me." They disappeared into the yard, and returned some time later, grunting and swearing, carrying a large chunk of metal between them.

"Are you sure about this, Bobby?" asked Sam dubiously, eyeing the cylinder head.

"Damned thing's cracked, no use to man or beast," replied Bobby, "Unless a beast can make use of it keeping his new teeth busy."

It was an education to watch, it really was. A full seven minutes passed with no sounds except Jimi's enthusiastic chewing, the tortured groan of twisting metal, and the gentle hiss of sparks landing on the carpet and Dean's jeans.

"Stupid Jap crap parts!" snarked Dean, patting frantically at his trousers before they could catch fire. "Don't just sit there, you two, go get him some American iron!"

Sam and Bobby did just that, heading out again and returning, greasy and tired, with an engine block in a wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow's tyre blew under the weight as they manoeuvred it to sit beside sofa.

"There ya go," panted Bobby, collapsing into his favourite chair, "She's the biggest thing we can get in the wheelbarrow and still move it. All the way from Detroit. Enjoy." Jimi sniffed at the block, then some teeth extruded, and he took an experimental little nibble…

"I swear, he swallowed some of it," declared Sam nine minutes later when the cast iron block had been reduced to teeny tiny pellets, peering in fascination at Jimi, "He chewed it up, and some of it, he swallowed."

"Guess he won't be suffering from any iron deficiency any time soon then," rumbled Bobby in resignation. He looked down at the detritus on his living room floor. "I guess we can just shovel it straight back into the wheelbarrow, take it to the scrap bin." He peered a bit more closely. "Damn critter took a bite out of my wheelbarrow, too."

"It's really pretty finely ground," observed Sam, "We should save some of it for packing iron shot cartridges…"

"YAIPE!" went Jimi, another tooth making itself felt.

Dean dabbed at the blood on the dog's chin. "Don't just stand there, Francis," he demanded, "Go fetch him another block!"

"Dean, it took him less than ten minutes to get through that one!" exclaimed Sam as Bobby let out a snort of disbelief. "It took a block and tackle, and a lot of swearing, to shift it! I don't think just chewing is going to be a solution for Jimi," he added. "He doesn't so much chew as, well, disintegrate."

Dean turned desperate eyes to Bobby.

"Uh, I've got a couple of butcher's steel mesh gloves," he mused, scratching his head, "Maybe we could fill those with ice and you can try to encourage him to, you know, just kind of suck on them."

"Right, right, steel gloves, ice," Dean nodded vigorously, "You do that, Bobby, while you, Francis, go fetch more tyres. We can fill them with water, freeze them, and…"

"This is now officially ridiculous," pronounced Sam. "Dean, I really think that this is just part of Jimi growing up… there, see?" Two teeth emerged together before retracting. "He's just going to have to grow through it, and into it, like all animals with teeth do."

"There must be something we can do to help him," Dean pleaded.

"I'm not sure there is in this case, son," Bobby told him gently. "We can't just let him chew up the entire inventory of the yard – my scrap bins aren't that big, and Sam will stop shovelling shrapnel long before that."

"You got that bit right," Sam grumbled, making a start on shovelling Jimi's leavings back into the wheelbarrow.

"He'll survive this, Dean," Bobby reassured him. "If it's meant to happen, and I think Sam is right, he'll survive it. Give him a little bit of moral support, coddle him a little bit, but he'll survive it. He'll be fine."

"You two are the most unfeeling, heartless, insensitive, inhuman, merciless, brutal, callous, pitiless, indifferent, uncaring, cold and, and, and… you meanies!" Dean finished unhappily.

"Yup, that's us," confirmed Bobby, "We be those evil assholes. "Right now, it's time to think about chow. All that physical exertion gives a body an appetite. What about you, Adolf?" He turned to Sam. "How about you go fetch us some grub, when you're done there? Maybe get us some kittens to eat for dessert?"

"Sounds like a plan, Ghengis," agreed Sam, still shovelling, "I'll just deal with this, then get food. Maybe we could do something fun this evening, maybe oppress some people who look different to us, or a spot of genocide after dinner? Or, we could just tie tin cans to the dogs' tails."

"No, I got my Pointless Vivisection Of Really Cute Baby Monkeys Club tonight," said Bobby in a regretful tone, "The Secretary has some utterly adorable little capuchins, torn from their mothers before they're even weaned. Should be a hoot."

"Well, I might catch up on my torturing of crippled children, then," mused Sam, picking up the wheelbarrow handles, "I still got a whole box of 'em I haven't opened yet." He paused in the doorway. "You want your kittens short-haired or long-haired?" he asked.

"Short-haired," Bobby specified, "The long-haired ones give me wind."

"I hate you both so much," growled Dean.

"No kittens for you, then, bro?" Sam grinned at him.

"Bring me pie, bitch," Dean growled. "And more soup. Best get some for yourself, too, because you keep this up, and it'll be all you can eat with your broken jaw wired shut."

"Don't forget some food pellets for the mother hen, here," added Bobby, dodging the cushion that sailed past at head height. He stuck his head out the door, and called loudly to Sam,

"Hey, bring in another tyre while you're at it."

"What for?" asked Sam, ditching the last of the metal confetti, "Jimi will just eat it in under a minute."

"It's not for the dog," Bobby kept his voice raised, "I want it for your brother – he's very close to chewing on the walls, and I want a substitute to keep him away from the plasterwork…"

He was actually quite impressed with the way Dean made the next cushion boomerang through the door, around a corner and down the hall.

* * *

Every time you leave a review, someone feeds Celine Dion into a wood-chipper in an alternative universe. Meanwhile, if you want some soothing music, the Intermezzo from Cavaleria Rusticana is a good choice. It really is fucking relaxing. Drowns out Celine's screams nicely, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Who wouldn't extol the therapeutic attributes of Motorhead? I spent last Saturday night being soothed by them. All good fun. Especially since my hearing was so screwed up for two days afterwards that on Monday I sat through a three-hour 'group facilitation session' (read: You Are Not Allowed To Refer To Idiots As Idiots But Must Pretend To Respect Them) and couldn't hear a bloody thing. Talk about relaxing…

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Footballer, anti-inflammatory gel."

Moira Kenneally looked up, and saw the man her younger colleague was referring to. She smiled.

"New father. Junior is griping, or teething," she corrected, taking in his tired face and harassed/bemused/bordering-on-homicidal expression at a glance. Jenny was only a few years out of graduation, and had been far more interested in the man's height and build, which was perfectly all right, as long as she ogled discreetly ("No drooling on the customers, Jen," Moira often teased her, "Or I'll take their dry-cleaning expenses out of your wages.") It was their private joke, just like the game of Who Are You And Why Are You Here that they sometimes played in quieter moments.

After more than thirty years as a pharmacist, Moira was much better at this game. She claimed victory when the tired-looking man trudged to the infant care section. "That's four jelly beans you owe me already this morning," she declared in triumph.

"You cheat, I don't know how, but you do," sighed Jenny melodramatically as Moira laughed and moved to help her latest customer. Interesting, she thought, how someone so tall managed to look like a lost and anxious five-year-old…

"Can I help you?" she asked kindly.

"Uh, I hope so," he answered, sounding a bit vague. "I need, um, something for teething pain. Not for me. For my, er…"

"First one, huh?" she sympathised.

He nodded ruefully. "We've tried giving him, you know, things to chew on, but that only helps for a few minutes at a time."

"Well, they're all different, you have to find what works for yours," she told him. "How's Mom holding up?"

The change in his expression spoke volumes. "Er, not happy," he said. "I mean, teething is a natural part of growing up, right? It's going to hurt, but it's not fatal. He's unhappy, and it's sore, but he'll grow through it, and getting hysterical about it isn't going to improve the situation…"

"You're right," she agreed, "But it's hard to be rational about it when it's your own. Especially the first one. Keeping you up nights, hmmmm?" she asked.

"Not him, exactly," the tall man replied, "He's a bit grizzly, lets out the odd yelp, but mostly it's my… wife who's keeping the house awake. …She insists on sitting with him, and doesn't trust me to take care of him properly." He let out a sigh. "Night before last, she kept throwing things at me to wake me, up to and including a lampshade. Last night, while I went to get dinner, she hid half a dozen mobile phones in the bedroom, so she could wake me up when she wanted something, including pie at 3 a.m. - each time I found one and turned it off, she rang another one. If I dare suggest that… she is in any way over-reacting or being overly demanding, it's taking my life in my hands." He sighed resignedly. "I don't suppose you have something for a bad case of… Momzilla?" he asked, giving the distinct impression he was actually peeking up at her through his shaggy hair. "Short of, um, cyanide?" He paused. "Did I just say that out loud?"

Moira laughed. Under the pretence of being helpful, Jenny had discreetly sidled up to her and handed over a tube of teething gel, taking the opportunity to ogle a little closer. "This helps a lot of kids," she told him, "Although when I had mine, a little bit of clove oil in some olive oil was the done thing. Have you tried him with cold food?"

"Chewing things didn't seem to help him much…"

"Try cold food," she suggested, "Encourage him to suck on them, hold them in his mouth, rather than chew. Frozen peas worked for one of mine. Frozen carrots, celery. And if it gets really bad," she leaned in conspiratorially, "I did on a few occasions dip the corner of a washcloth in brandy, and let the little one suck on that." She looked thoughtful. "By the time things had gotten that bad, a small nip for Mom was usually appreciated, too."

He looked at her dubiously. "Er, isn't alcohol bad for the developing brain?" he asked cautiously.

"Apparently, in this day and age, everything is bad for children," she replied. "Mine grew up to be a doctor, an engineer, and a lawyer, so the worst I could say was that it caused interesting arguments around the dinner table at family events. My own Mom swore she rubbed rum on our gums, and that did the trick."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I think that… Dee would like the idea of alcohol involvement."

He thanked her, and bought the teething gel. And a packet of jelly beans, because it's a scientifically proven fact that a majority of humans cannot go into a pharmacy and not pick up a packet of jelly beans when they're right there at the counter. She was handing over his change when his phone rang; she didn't mean to listen in, really she didn't, but the tone of the voice on the other end was clearly apparent, strident, and it became shriller with each pause …

"Hey, I… What? I answered on the second ring!... Yeah, I've just bought some… No I haven't, it's been less than half an hour!... I will, I will, but there's no point getting ice until I'm on my way back… Hang on, it's… 0.33 oz… that's the size it comes in! You can't buy this stuff in bulk! How much do you… okay, point taken… Okay, okay, sure, can you just try to calm down a little… I am not making light of this, I just think… " He jerked, and held the phone away from his ear. Their eyes met, and Moira gave him a sympathetic smile. "Look, why don't I just get back home as soon as I can, okay, maybe I could take over sofa duty for you for…"

The angry shrieking clearly audible through the phone indicated that Biggun's wife did _not_ think he was capable of soothing their youngster. Moira grinned to herself, politely turning away – a mom watching over a distressed baby could be more ferocious than a wolf protecting a pup…

"Uh-huh… uh-huh… okay, I'll be quick as I can. Uh-huh… right, apple or cherry? Both? Okay. Back soon. Love you too, sweetheart," he said through clenched teeth, ending the call mid-shriek. He gave Moira a brief thumbs up, and left her shop.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Where the hell have you been?" demanded Dean angrily when Sam walked back into the sitting room. "Did you get it? Where's my coffee? Where's our pie? Did you get soup? How much ice did you bring back? What took you so long?"

_Patience is a virtue,_ Sam chanted to himself, _Patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue, and if you cut his throat Bobby will be really annoyed at the bloodstains on the floor…_

"I had to go to several drugstores to get this stuff," he answered, "Because I couldn't very well go in and say, 'Could you sell me a whole box of these at once, because I want to use it on a Hellhound, well, a half-Hellhound to be exact, and I need a lot, although it's mostly to try to shut my brother up because he's totally over-reacting…'." He handed over a bag of small tubes. "Here, there's swabs in there too, knock yourself out."

"Bitch," muttered Dean, starting on the task of smearing teething gel on Jimi's gums. "If you could remember what a little pain in the ass you were when you were teething, you'd be more sympathetic. Jesus, you kept us awake for a week at a time."

"So, now you're getting payback, huh?" griped Sam, handing over coffee and pie. "One of the pharmacists suggested trying some cold food things, so I've got those chilling down in the freezer. If this doesn't work we can try those."

"Let's just try this," said Dean, yanking his hand out of the way as a helltooth slid into view, eliciting a small whine from Jimi. "Hopefully, it will… hey!" Jimi sniffed at the gel-covered swab, then grabbed it and ate it. "Hey! Don't do that!"

"Maybe that's a good sign," suggested Sam, "Maybe that means he's hungry."

"Go fix him some soup," Dean instructed, picking up another swap, "If this helps his mouth, he might be more comfortable… Jimi!" Jimi grabbed the tube of teething gel out of Dean's hand, and ate it, swallowing, then letting out a small burp. "It goes on your gums, fella!"

Before Dean's fatigue-dulled reflexes could stop him, Jimi plunged his nose into the paper bag, taking out another tube, and chewing thoughtfully on it.

"That's interesting," mused Sam, "How he's self-medicating, I mean."

Jimi swallowed, burped, and turned on the Big Brown Eyes – he really didn't feel much like eating, but those little chewy treats were moorish. Dean just stared at him in resignation, so he helped himself to another one out of the bag.

Dean sighed. "Soup. Now, Samantha," he reiterated.

"Right away, honey," muttered Sam _sotto voce_ as he headed for the kitchen.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Frozen carrot and celery," explained Sam later as Dean eyed him dubiously. Jimi lifted his head briefly to see what was being offered. Initially he seemed disappointed that he wasn't being given any more of those tasty little chewy treats that made his tongue go all tingly, but he took the frozen carrot, then dropped his head heavily back to Dean's lap with a sigh. "Try to get him to hold it in his mouth, suck on it, rather than chew it."

Jimi shut his mouth on the carrot, and made a few slurping noises, apparently content to let it rest against his gums.

"It seems to be working," observed Dean, a trace of hope on his face, "Give him another one for the other side." Sam handed over a celery stick.

They sat like that for a couple of minutes, then Jimi yawned, yelped, and sort of spat…

Two neat piles of perfectly julienned vegetables fell into Dean's lap.

"Okaaaaay, not exactly what I was expecting," admitted Sam, giving the dog another carrot.

A few minutes later, another pile of uniformly slivered carrot was deposited on Dean's lap.

"It takes chefs years to learn how to do that well," commented Bobby when wandered through, bringing more coffee. "The next time I'm entertaining and need help preparing the crudités, I know who to ask."

Dean let his head fall backwards onto the sofa with a defeated groan.

"Er, let's try the peas," suggested Sam, fetching the packet from the kitchen. "He can't shred these as such." He offered a handful to Jimi, who sniffed at them, then carefully licked them up, sucking them around in his mouth.

"Oh, he's just swallowed them," said Dean, disappointed, scratching the dog's ears. "You have to hold 'em in your mouth for longer than that, fella, the idea is to let the cold sit against your…"

Jimi suddenly sneezed.

A definite 'bang' noise accompanied the sneeze.

On the other side of the room, a small ceramic figurine exploded.

"What the hell was that?" asked Dean, peering out carefully from behind the sofa where both Winchesters had taken refuge.

"Er, Jimi sneezed," Sam told him in a bemused voice. "The, er, high-speed projectile, I have a nasty suspicion..."

Jimi twitched his nose. "Snrf!" he went.

_bang_

A picture frame on the mantel shattered.

Bobby suddenly burst into the room, gun at the ready. "Drop it!" he bellowed.

"Hang fire! Hang fire!" shouted Dean from behind the sofa.

Jimi gave him a tired doggy grin. Then sneezed.

_bang_

A chunk of plaster flew from the wall beside Bobby's elbow.

"What the hell are you idjits playing at in here?" he demanded, squeezed in uncomfortably beside Dean behind the sofa.

"Peas," Sam sighed tiredly, "We were trying the frozen peas. After he just kept julienning the carrots and celery…"

"Snrf!" _bang_

"… I thought we should try the frozen peas."

"Only he wouldn't hold them in his mouth," explained Dean, "He sucked on them for a bit, then swallowed them…"

"Snrf!" _bang_

"... And now, fuck knows how, but he appears to be…"

"Snrf!" _bang_

"... Firing frozen peas." Dean risked a peek over the back of the sofa.

"Snrf!" _bang_

"At extremely high velocity."

"Snrf!" _bang_

"Out his nose."

"Snrf-flflf!" _bang bang_

"Oh, hey, both barrels at once…"

"Snrf!" _bang_

_**CRASH!**_

Bobby chanced a look. "Oh well," he muttered, "I never did like that lamp much, anyway."

"At least Dean won't have a chance to throw it at me," added Sam, looking on the bright side. "I wonder if he has some allergy to peas, legumes perhaps, although he eats enough of Dean's peanut M&Ms without any ill effects – have you ever noticed him firing M&Ms, Dean? I'm pretty sure we'd have noticed if he started firing M&Ms."

"Snrf!" _bang_

"Er, no, no, I've never noticed him do that," answered Dean.

"Maybe the chocolate defuses them," wondered Sam. "We could do an experiment, feed him plain peanuts, and see if they work as, er, nasal ammunition…"

"Snrf!" _bang_

"… Then you'd have to get some chocolate-coated peas, and try those, see if the chocolate coating really has a defusing effect…"

"Snrf!" _bang_

"Much as I hate to interrupt your Mythbusters moment," growled Bobby, wincing as something else shattered, "How many peas did you give him?"

Sam looked non-plussed. "Um, a handful," he replied. "About a dozen, I guess, maybe twenty?"

"Fourteen shots fired so far," reported Dean gloomily.

"We'd best just stay put for the time being," suggested Bobby. "Either of you chuckleheads think to bring a deck of cards?"

Jimi fired off a few more peas, and when the sneezing seemed to have stopped, all three Hunters emerged from behind the sofa. A few items were broken, a dozen neat round holes decorated the walls, and one of the windows had a tiny, perfectly circular perforation barely half an inch across in a bottom corner.

"Wow, he was packing some firepower," mused Sam. "Memo, Dean. Do Not Feed Jimi Peas Again In A Hurry."

"HUA," agreed Dean, taking up position on the sofa with Jimi once more. The dog slumped back down, head in his lap, and looked up, tired and mournful. Both Jimi and Dean let out large, tired sighs.

"It could've been worse," humphed Dean glumly, "They could've gone all the way through to the other end before he started firing." He turned bleary eyes to Sam. "So, apart from boat-tailed hollow point peas, you got anything else in your bag of tricks?"

"Yeah," Sam told him, fishing a small bottle of liquor out of his bag, "One of the pharmacists said to use this if it got really bad." He picked up a clean washcloth, and dampened the end with brandy. "Try this."

Dean took the washcloth, and stuffed the corner into his own mouth. "Hmmmm," he sighed, eyelids drooping, "This is good stuff…" He glared at his brother. "Don't just stand there, Francis," he ordered, "Make one for the dog!"

* * *

The frozen peas idea came from Bartlebead - blame her. My Mum apparently dunked my dummy in sherry, so you can blame her for any brain damage it caused that gave rise to my tendency to write silly fanfics. See? Ultimately, none of this is my fault...

Every time you leave a review, somebody fires frozen peas into Celine Dion in an alternative universe and they go all the way through and all her blood oozes away and her lungs leak out and her head implodes and her arse falls off and she dies on E three octaves above middle C.


	5. Chapter 5

HUA = heard, understood, acknowledged, Bartlebead. The idea of the Winchester Pack on Iron Chef is an intriguing one. "Special ingredient tonight is... plot bunny!" Nah, unless there was bacon involved, Dean and Jimi would never go for it...

**

* * *

**

_Clanclangclangclangclangclang_

Sam had always been one for asking questions.

His first word might've been 'Dean', but hot on the heels of that came why, what, how...

_Clanclangclangclangclangclang_

The sudden strident noise startled Sam out of the doze he'd managed to fall into – he jumped, yelped, and fell out of bed.

_Clanclangclangclangclangclang_

It was odd, the sorts of questions that popped into his mind and thoughts when his brain either didn't have anything else to do, or couldn't muster the focus to do anything specific so it wandered off of its own accord. It was like keeping a large, intelligent dog, and not giving it enough toys and training work to keep it gainfully and healthily occupied. It was a perilous thing, allowing a mind as enquiring as Sam's to Wonder About Things...

_Clanclangclangclangclangclang_

When he was a child, it had been endless questions about why the sky was blue in the day and red in the evening, what made candy taste sweet and Brussels sprouts taste horrible and how worms worked.

As he grew older, the questions became more problematic: why do we live like this, what makes the Hunt so important, how can I escape.

Later still, the questions became more abstract, and far more difficult: why did this happen to us, what can I do to stop it, how do I find my way... back.

Deep, philosophical questions, in part rhetorical, in part, a desperate plea to an uncaring universe for, for, for...

_Clanclangclangclangclangclang_

Letting out a sigh dripping with existential angst, he pushed himself to his feet, and made his way downstairs. What he wanted to know, right now, more than anything else, what he really, really wanted to know, was

_Clanclangclangclangclangclang_

Where the FUCK had Dean fucking managed to get fucking hold of a fucking COW BELL?

Fucking.

He answered his brother's summons with as much good grace as he could muster, under the circumstances, which was to say, none whatsoever.

"What now, Florence Nightmare?" he asked with a grumpy yawn.

"Coffee, bitch," snapped Dean, "And ice."

"Want me to get you some toilet paper, too? Because you look like shit," queried Sam.

"Fuck off, Francis," rumbled Dean. Sam muttered something suggesting that Dean was a fornicator who was born before his parents were married, and headed for the kitchen. He hadn't been kidding. The Living Sex God looked more like a member of the Living Dead...

"And you're starting to smell like it too, bro," he informed Dean when he returned with the required coffee. "I can sit with him while you go take a shower, at least, maybe get a couple of hours of sleep..."

The snarl Dean turned on him made Sam wonder if his brother's hellteeth were about to pop out. "Canines," he said abruptly. "Last night. After you crawled away for your beauty sleep." Sam wasn't sure if a short night of uneasy dozing between episodes of being awoken by the insistent clanging of a cow bell counted as 'sleep', let alone an activity that would somehow promote 'beauty', but he decided to keep that observation to himself.

As Dean spoke, Jimi let out a whine, followed by a yelp. As Dean had observed some hours earlier, the largest yet of his new teeth appeared: wicked, curved, upper canine fangs, longer than his middle finger...

"Holy shit," breathed Sam, watching them resheath. Jimi pawed at his face, and looked miserable. It should not have been possible for a dog with black fur to have bags under his eyes, but somehow, Jimi managed it. "Just... holy shit."

"Exactly," Dean agreed.

"This is making progress, bro," Sam started, trying to find a positive angle to the latest painful development, "The C1 canines erupt later in the sequence, so, he's closer to being done..."

"I don't know what else to do," said Dean, sounding and looking as miserable as Jimi as he stroked the sad black head in his lap, "He won't eat, he can't sleep, and these fangs are the worst so far."

"Hang in there," Sam told him, "And if you change your mind about changing places for a couple of hours, just ring your bell, Heidi."

"So, how are Jimi and Deanzilla this morning?" asked Bobby when he joined Sam in the kitchen. "And where the hell did that idjit get hold of a damned cow bell?"

Sam wilted in his chair. "I coaxed him into eating a little bit of soup," he reported. After a short pause, he added, "And Jimi had some, too." He looked at Bobby. "Janis has never shown any signs of getting, er, her third set of teeth?"

"Nope," confirmed Bobby, "Nothing at all like this. Maybe she doesn't need them, because she's not Hunting. Maybe this is only something that's manifested, because Jimi is going to need those teeth now he's old enough to Hunt with you all the time."

"The problem is, there really isn't anything in lore on medical care of diabolical creatures," sighed Sam resignedly. "Humans can't summon Hellhounds, so they've never had to figure this stuff out. As far as I know, not even your library has anything on the birth, development and maturation of Hellhounds. How do they reproduce? Do they reproduce? Full-blood hounds, I mean – where do they actually come from? Do they even have baby teeth, then permanent teeth?" He dropped his head into his hands.

Bobby snorted with laughter. "My Mom always told me that I screamed like a banshee," he confided. "My grandmother had my pacifier blessed by a priest, and gave me a rag soaked in holy water to chew on. She was convinced that the only way for a kid to make so much noise was for Satan himself to have some involvement."

"We tried holy water already," Sam told him, "Out of desperation, really. It didn't help – if anything, it might've made things worse…" he stopped, and frowned in thought.

Bobby watched carefully, but remained silent. That expression meant that Sam's mind was Wondering About Something.

Slowly, still lost in thought, Sam pulled his laptop towards himself, and started searching for something.

"I'll be gone for a couple of hours," he announced, going to get his keys and wallet, "Keep an eye on the Gruesome Twosome for me. Oh, and if you get a chance, get that damned bell away from Dean."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"It's an unusual request," admitted the pleasant, middle-aged lady who greeted Sam, "But, frankly, I've been asked stranger things in relation to my belief system." She gave him an appraising look. "You do understand that we do not worship the Devil, or Lucifer, or any other supernatural entity?" she asked him. "We use 'Satan' as a term to embody a philosophy, a model of behaviour, a desire to question. We don't thing of him as an individual, a being, an intelligent entity."

"I understand the basics of your philosophy," Sam told her, "But Jimi is a very… unusual dog, Magistra Lydia. I think that what you believe about your philosophy may not be the only factor here – I can't help wondering if what others believe about your philosophy may be involved, too."

"Oh, the eating babies, sacrificing virgins, bacchanalian orgies?" she laughed, and rolled her eyes. "Or is it sacrificing babies and eating virgins? The majority of us are too old, too busy and too tired for orgies. A lot of the time, it's all we can do to remember who's on the roster to bring a cake to have with the coffee."

He smiled. "I know it sounds strange," he agreed, "But, well, we're desperate, here. He's really in a lot of pain, poor thing." He showed her a photo of Jimi as a puppy on his phone, and her face broke into a grandmotherly smile.

"Oh, he is just gorgeous!" she cooed. The power of the Big Brown Eyes, and the double dose of Chick Magnet genes, worked their mojo even via the medium of digital photography. She made a decision. "If you think it might help the little fella, I'd be pleased to do a small ritual for you," she told him. "Come on through."

"Thank you so much, Magistra Lydia," smiled Sam, as she led him through to a room where a simple black altar was set up. She cleared her throat.

"You know, if we wanted to be really traditionalist about this," she said, a small grin on her face, "We'd have the naked human form serving as the altar…"

At the expression on his face, she took pity on him, and laughed. "But that's not essential," she reassured him. "Just put it on the altar there," she finished. He let out a sigh of relief, and placed the gallon jugs where she'd indicated.

Lydia disappeared briefly, and returned wearing a tall hat. "My Hat Of Office," the Priestess grinned. "One thing we do acknowledge, humans have a love of ritual, and dressing up. You can sit over there, I'll make it as official-sounding as I can." Sam thanked her and headed for the chair she'd waved at, as Magistra Lydia bowed to her altar, picked up an ornate knife, and began to recite.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

When he arrived back at the yard, Bobby was in the kitchen, looking pained.

"Whatever you're going to try, I hope it works, boy," he growled, as Sam busied himself with ice cube trays. "It's getting worse." A whining yelp from the sitting room backed up Bobby's statement. "Your brother's moved from pain-in-the-ass right through to plumb ornery. I tried to get that cow bell off him – the boy snarled at me! He's worse than a bitch guarding an injured pup!"

"I'm hoping this will work, Bobby," Sam told him, transferring trays to the freezer, "Right now, I think we'll just go with the washcloth as a stopgap." He soaked a washcloth from his jug, and headed for the sitting room.

Bobby had brought in the heavy artillery: Rumsfeld and Janis sat in the floor in front of the sofa, whuffing and offering what comfort they could as Jimi's teeth gave him grief.

"Where have you been?" glowered Dean, the darkness under his eyes accentuated by the paleness of the rest of his face.

"Following a hunch," answered Sam shortly, offering the washcloth to Jimi.

"That won't work, Sam," sighed Dean in exasperation, "He'll just shred it in ten seconds." Sam ignored him. Jimi sniffed the washcloth, then took it carefully in his mouth…

Something almost constituting a look of surprise crossed the dog's face, followed by a huge groaning sigh.

He sat up slightly, stretched luxuriantly, then settled comfortably back onto Dean's lap, washcloth held in his mouth. He yawned hugely – his four Hellhound canine fangs protruded briefly, then shot back in. He shut his mouth on the washcloth, humphed contentedly, wriggled to get comfortable, then settled. His mother and his sister licked his ears and whuffed to him reassuringly.

Thirty seconds later, Jimi was snoring blissfully, snuggling into the reassuring presence of his Alpha.

Sixty seconds later, the first lavender-scented Hellhound fart indicated just how relaxed he was.

Dean stared disbelievingly at the snoring dog sprawled across him. "I don't believe it," he whispered, stroking Jimi's fur, "I don't believe it. Whatever you did, it worked." He looked up at his brother. "What the hell did you do? What's on that washcloth?"

Bobby fetched them coffee, as Sam told them about his trip to visit a grotto of the Church of Satan, and how the grotto mistress Lydia had been totally captivated by Jimi's photo, and agreed to help. He left out the bit where he was invited to participate as the altar, though, because he knew that Dean would never let him forget about that bit. As it was, it was just one more thing to have nightmares about…

Bobby grunted in amusement. "Unholy water," he chuckled. "I never would've thought of that. I suppose it makes sense, in a way. Hellhound, creature of the Pit…"

"…And deemed to be unholy," finished Sam. "Church of Satan members may know they're not devil worshippers, but a lot more people think they are, and belief is a powerful thing." He smiled at the sleeping dog. "Apparently, just enough to help Jimi's teething pain."

Bobby had a thoughtful look on his face. "I wonder what else this stuff works on," he mused. "Maybe next time Feathers is hanging around, we can get him to have a look at this stuff, see what he thinks. Let him know we've got something interesting for him to see next time he visits, Dean… Dean?"

There was a sudden tenor counterpoint to Jimi's baritone snore; Dean had fallen asleep too.

"You know, that's almost as much as a relief as seeing Jimi nod off," grinned Bobby. Rumsfeld and Janis lay down next to the couch pressed against Dean's legs, clearly intent on a comfy puppy pile snooze. Jimi shifted slightly, yawned – half a dozen teeth extruded, then slid back out of sight – and resettled on Dean's lap.

"Wereflgl," mumbled Dean, smiling.

"I'll go get him a blanket," laughed Sam, getting up and heading out of the sitting room. "Right after I take a picture or two. Or Six."

"Hey, Sam," Bobby called softly to him. Sam turned and caught the object Bobby threw to him. It was the cow bell. "Just run out and drop that in the scrap, would you?"

* * *

What happens if you make fun of the Church of Satan? Does it mean you get sent to Heaven?

Every time you leave a review, Satanists eat Celine Dion in an alternative universe.


	6. Chapter 6

OMGOMGOMG FanfictionNet is working again OMGWTFBBQ! Hopefully this is a fix for all the gremlins - they've been particularly active in the largest of the fandoms - but now I can fix the details in the Story Properties! YAY! And lots of chocolate-coated internets to the gurus at FFN, because I bet the last couple of weeks have been horrible for them. (Boo hiss to all the nasty people who posted rude messages to FFN techs over this. Boo hiss! Boo hiss!)

Anyway, just a chapterlet to finish off. Thank you to The Usual Suspects who have evilly encouraged me. And a sincere apology to Firedancer885 - I hope it wasn't a splatter-on-the-screen incident. Or a choke-on-my-Cheetos incident, from which I'm sure we all hope that Elf has recovered...

Those of you who have read 'Just Like You' will understand the significance of Sam's comment to Jimi towards the end...

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**Chapter 6**

Sam and Bobby pored over copies of a particularly ambiguous passage from a grimoire of Bobby's acquisition. It seemed unusually quiet after the noisy anguish of Jimi cutting his Hellhound teeth.

"He seems to be well on the way to getting control if them," Sam noted. Jimi was still trying to master his teeth, but a good supply of unholy water ice cubes and wet washcloths was clearly helping. That morning, he had experimentally extruded a dozen teeth at once and drawn them back in, then sat there looking pleased with himself, basking in the praise of his Pack.

A burst of noise, hysterical laughter, and excited barking interrupted from outside. Bobby groaned.

"Not again," he said in a pained voice. "They were at it yesterday, too, and I told him to knock it off."

There was a brief pause, then a serious of _pings_, followed by more laughing and barking.

"Come with me, Sam," growled Bobby, taking off his glasses carefully – the gesture made Sam think of a man in a bar carefully putting down his drink before beating the crap out of someone…

Dean's improvised shooting range was very organised: he had a large bag of cans, ten of which sat on a fence rail, and a neat row of handfuls of peas, carefully counted out into groups of ten. He smiled hugely as they approached.

"It's amazing!" he told them, feeding another handful of peas to Jimi, "He never misses! He absolutely never misses! Do you, fella?" The dog gave a happy doggy grin, and Dean pointed him downrange. "He must get his marksmanship from me. Okay, Jimi, aaaaaaaaand…. fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!* A tin can flew off the fence.

"Dean," began Bobby, "You were doing this for most of yesterday…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…And while I understand that you're happy that your dog's feeling better…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…And you're having fun, Sam and I are actually trying to get some work done…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…Which is difficult with you and your semi-automatic dog detonating every few seconds…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…Not to mention damage done by the odd richochet…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…So make this your last round, Dean, because not only do we not understand how his firing mechanism works…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…If you don't knock off this racket…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…So help me, I'll…"

"Fire!"

"Snrf!" _bang_ *kping!*

"…Put you across my knee, and give you something to be really noisy about…"

"Fire!"

There was silence.

Jimi looked up adoringly at Dean, who looked in confusion from the dog, to the last can still sitting on the fence, then back to the dog.

"Er, I said 'fire', Jimi," he repeated, pointing to the can.

Jimi followed his point and looked to the can, then looked back to Dean with a happy doggy grin, wagging his tail vigorously.

"Er," said Dean.

"I think the phrase you're looking for is 'hang fire', or possible 'stoppage'," supplied Sam, carefully standing behind the dog.

"Well done, idjit," grumbled Bobby, "Your dog's jammed. How do you propose to clear the breech?"

"Um," Dean frowned in thought, "Maybe I can feed him more peas, that might clear it, and…" He gave them a bright smile. "I guess we put him somewhere where he can't do any damage if he goes off."

"Good idea," smiled Bobby, "A dog that can walk through walls, we shut him in somewhere. How do you propose we do that?"

"Oh, we just give him his favourite toy," said Dean, waving a hand airily, "That'll make him stay put."

Bobby and Sam exchanged a look, then grabbed an elbow each.

Jimi followed them all the way back into the house, where a protesting Dean was marched to the panic room.

"You can clear the mechanism in here," Bobby told him. "Any shots he fires will be safely contained." He looked around at the iron walls. "It may richochet around a bit, depending on how hard he sneezes, so you might want to take cover if his nose starts to twitch."

"What? What?" Dean's voice rose when he realised Bobby wasn't joking. "Hey, hey! Let me out!" He pounded on the door. "I can't stay in here!"

"Don't worry, Dean," Sam reassured him, "It must be thawed out by now, so it'll only leave a bruise. Probably." He paused. "Of course, if it works its way all the way through to the other end before he fires, there's no telling how much velocity the back pressure will generate…"

"Saaaaam!" called Dean, a little desperately, "Let me out! No, no," his pleading switched to Jimi, who was clearly enjoying the opportunity for some quality romping time with his Alpha, who was literally a captive audience. "No, fella, don't point your nose at me, good boy…"

Feeling slightly aggrieved with Dean's conduct during the worst of Jimi's teething, Sam couldn't help himself. He opened the door hatch, and spoke to Jimi.

_Snuffle-whuff..._

"No, Jimi, no, no," yelped Dean desperately as the dog writhed happily against him, "That nose is loaded, point it somewhere else… OH GOD DON'T POINT IT THERE!" Dean pounded on the door again. "LET ME OUT!" he yelled. "You can't leave me in here with a loaded dog!"

"Then unload him," suggested Bobby. "You can come out when we've heard the bang."

"How?" asked Dean, desperately, "How do I unload him? HEY! HEY! LET ME OUT!"

"If you're too noisy down here, Dean," Sam told him, "We won't hear the bang and know that you can come out…"

"I'm gonna shave your head for this, you giant freak!" threatened Dean, sounding slightly shrill. "And you, you smug scheming old fart, I'm gonna salt and burn your hat! While you're still wearing it!" There was no answer. "Guys? Guys?" There was still no answer. Sam and Bobby must've gone back to their grimoire. "I don't know _how_ to unload him!" he shouted.

The small hatch in the door opened. A hand dropped a small plastic cylinder, which bounced on the floor.

Dean picked it up.

It was a pepper grinder.

The outraged yodelling wail of "BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!" floated upstairs, but at least after that Bobby and Sam had some peace for their discussions while waiting for the bang.

**THE END**

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The instructors at obedience training are always saying that a dog's favourite toy is its handler… oh, and for those who don't speak Canine and haven't read 'Just Like You', _'snuffle-whuff' _means _'Your Alpha loves you_.' (A werewolf taught him that. No, really.) So, that's it for now. Hope you enjoyed! Jeez, this was a short one for me, next you know, I'll be writing one-shots. *looks around* Now, which plot bunny to stomp on next?...


End file.
